


Spy Vs Spy

by allthekingsmen (anglophileprussian)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglophileprussian/pseuds/allthekingsmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya have met before. Several times before actually, in a variety of circumstances. It is to be expected that Illya would grow rather fond of the reckless American spy he keeps running into, but he knows better than to get attached. Of course, knowing better isn't actually enough to keep him from getting attached and now working with him? It can't end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea and it was so easy to write that I easily finished it. Just put the finishing touches on it today: the next chapter is going to be posted next week for certain. Includes a retelling of the film in the second part, with enough difference to keep it interesting I hope. 
> 
> This really is just a feel good, fluff experience. Enjoy the ride

An American agent and a Russian agent walk into a bar- there’s the joke of course. But there is a lot before that of course. It is not the first time they meet. 

 

“Of course you’re an American agent.”

The man pokes his head out of the safe he’s been looking through and frowns. “I resent that statement.”

Illya ignores him. “Only an American spy would be so stupid as to come to a dinner party dressed like that.”

“There is nothing wrong with the way I’m dressed.”

“Your shoes have broguing on them.”

The American looks down at his shoes, unaffected by the gun Illya was aiming at his head.“What’s wrong with that? I like broguing.” 

“It looks ridiculous.”

There is a noise in the hallway and they both immediately turn still and silent. After a few moments, when they are both certain no one is coming, their expressions shift back from concentration to annoyed. 

“I don’t know what business a Russian spy has telling me how to dress.”

“It’s everyone’s business when you look like your shoes have those lace things” Illya waves his hand helplessly as he tries to remember the word. “Doilies. You have doilies on your shoes.”

The American man slams the safe door closed, silently but with dramatic emphasis. “I’m not going to sit around while you mock my sartorial choices. Are you here for a reason, or are you just taking a stroll through the embassy after hours?”

“I am waiting to kill the ambassador, if you must know.” 

The American doesn’t seem to be interested. It feels offensive somehow: he should be interested. The ambassador was a very important person. But he goes on as if it doesn’t matter. “Well, I’m finished here, so I’ll be going. Try to not get caught on your way out.”

It’s thrown away as the man leaves the room through the balcony, but is about a kind a farewell as any enemy agent has a right to give. Illya, polite, mentally wishes him luck, and goes on waiting for the ambassador to come in so he can get out of this place. Bolivia is a bit warm for his taste. 

 

“Is this a disguise?” 

Illya turns away from the bartender at the familiar voice in English. The same American from Bolivia is leaning against the bar dramatically, like he’s being filmed or photographed. It is so ridiculous he cannot understand why everyone around them looks so appreciative when he is close to laughing.

“I am no one right now,” Illya explains. “I am simply waiting for transport.”

“It’s a lovely place to take a vacation. Have you tried those sandwiches? I can’t remember the name.”

“Francesinha.” 

“That. Porto is famous for them,” the American explains. “It’s a your-meal-for-the-day sort of food, but it’s delicious.”

“Maybe I’ll try one.” Illya enjoys trying the different kinds of food for all of the countries he’s been able to visit. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not looking for you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He has a glass of port wine in his hands, same as Illya. “It’s just a meeting between friends. I’m here to supervise.”

“Is America finally getting involved in taking down the fascists here?’ Illya asks, not bothering to hide his distaste. Portugal had been under their power since before the last world war.

“Is Russia?”

There is no very good answer to that. Illya finishes his glass and picks up his jacket, ready to be on his way. “There is a man following you.”

“Is there?” The American doesn’t look behind him, but shifts so that he can see reflections in the bottles lined in front of them. “Ah. A friend.”

“Your friends don’t look very friendly,” Illya notes. It is none of his business however, so he only gives another nod and heads outside to find some other way to spend his time. 

 

The American, Illya learns, is named Napoleon Solo. He knows this because he has been told to kill one of Solo’s fellow agents. He’d spotted a while flipping through the files. 

He waits across the road from where his target has been staying. The poor fool left his curtains opened, practically inviting someone to shoot him as he passed by. Clearly Illya has been overestimating the CIA’s intelligence.

But when a car comes up and parks only a few meters down the road, he is not nearly as surprised as he should be. Because of course Napoleon Solo steps out, confident as ever, and walks over to Illya’s own car - it is just his luck. He even opens the passenger door and comes inside. 

Napoleon smiles at him brightly. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“I will shoot you,” Illya says. He’s already taken his gun out and aimed it at Solo’s head. 

“And I will shoot you.” Solo aims his own weapon at Illya’s chest. He doesn’t look particularly upset, but that is hardly surprising. Illya suspects this American has no common sense. 

“Then we’ll both be dead.” 

“And someone else will come and finish my job.”

“Likewise.”

Both agents stare at each other for a few moments, and lower their weapons in sync. There isn’t much of a point to keep threatening each other when there’s no point in shooting.

“What’s Gerald done anyways, to upset the Russians?” Solo asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“He’s been smuggling drugs into Russia.” 

Solo frowns. “That’s not good. He always was a bit of a bastard, but I thought he was the normal kind the CIA seems to prefer.”

“That doesn’t sound very loyal,” Illya notes. He cannot imagine ever thinking something like that about the KGB in the privacy of his own mind, let alone chatting about it with enemy agents.

“I’m not, in general. Nor am I inclined to stop you from shooting him.”

Napoleon slowly leans back in his seat so that Illya has a clear view of the window across the road again. His target is standing in front of the window, reading something out to himself probably. It takes only a second for Illya to aim and shoot him, and then to start up the car to get away. 

They drive together for a few moments in silence. Illya, without really knowing why, drives in an irregular circle, stopping the car only a few blocks from where he’d been waiting in the first place. The police haven’t been notified, or have yet to arrive. It’s hard to tell with American police. 

“This is my stop,” Napoleon Solo says. “Good luck getting out.”

“Thank you,” Illya replies as Solo gets out of the car to return to his own. It’s likely that the American will get in trouble for letting his charge get killed, assuming of course that Solo had been there to protect the other agent. It’s obvious he’d misjudged him: Solo was less mercenary than they’d said in his dossier. Or more so- Illya cannot tell, really. Very strange. 

Illya lets Solo pull away from the scene of the crime before driving away again. 

 

“Is Napoleon your real name?”

He’s found Solo again, this time shackled to the floor of a warehouse he’s been sent to blow up. The man doesn’t look like he’s been there very long, but his expression is distinctly grumpy. 

“It is. Would you mind getting me out of these things? I’d have gotten out myself but they broke a few of my fingers.”

Illya kneels down and, with his own lock picks, begins taking off the cuffs. “Why would anyone name their child Napoleon?”

“My mother was crazy.” 

“Clearly.” The shackles fall away with a thud. 

Solo, rubbing his with disjointed fingers, stands. “No, really. She had to be put away when I was 11.”

“Oh.” Illya does not know what to say, so he hands the American a pistol he’d taken from one of the guards he’s had to remove. He has an uncomfortable feeling, knowing something about the other man’s past, even if it was offered so freely. Even if it was a complete lie.

“No need to get sentimental.” Napoleon has begun ripping his shirt to make long strips of cloth that he can wrap his fingers with. “Might I ask what brings you here?”

“I’m removing the building.”

“Well, then it’s fortunate you found me first.”

“Are there any other prisoners?”

“A few, down the hall if memory serves. I’ll get them on my way out.”

Illya shrugs to show that he doesn’t particularly care what the man does either way. It would have been nice if his handlers had briefed him on the possibility of civilian casualties, but it is not the first time they have left such details out to focus on the main objective. 

“See you around, Peril,” Napoleon says as he leaves.

“Peril?”

“In America, we call the Russians the ‘Red Peril’. That’s you.”

Illya laughs. “We just call you capitalist scum.”

“Not a very good nickname. You’ll have to think of something better.” 

Napoleon Solo actually waves as he leaves. Illya, against all common sense, hopes the man makes it out alive again. He feels rather spoiled of any other Americans.

 

And then, of course, he is assigned to New York. Being assigned to a long term assignment in America was very obviously a punishment. Not even a very subtle one. Almost beating another agent to death wasn’t intentional, but his handlers hardly care what he’d meant to do. He’s been asked to stay in New York City for a few months, and surveil some possible recruits. He hasn’t been in the same city for more than a few weeks since he was 18. 

He knows nothing about New York City. It is ridiculous, but he looks for a bar that he feels Napoleon Solo would visit, if only as something to do - something trendy and full of flashing lights. He visits various spots each night for a week before giving up entirely: evidently when he was looking for a familiar face, he couldn’t find the man. Otherwise, he couldn’t seem to turn a corner without running into him. 

So he is in a jazz club of his own choosing. He has decided, since coming to the United States, that jazz is the only thing worth while that this country had ever done. Of course, somehow, this is where Napoleon finds him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Napoleon says, coming to sit down next to him. He at least has the decency to only speak when the performers have taken a break. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

“Hardly.” The darkness of the club hides, thankfully, the rush of warmth coming to his cheeks. Solo has the most incredible ability to make him feel ridiculous. It’s unfair coming from someone so obvious absurd himself. 

“It’s no matter. What are you doing in our fair city? Not killing someone I know again, are you?”

“No, no death. Undercover.”

“I have a hard time believing you could possibly be undercover. Six feet of Russian is hard to hide even in the big old ‘melting pot’.”

Illya does not have to recognize the expression to know he’s being insulted. Frowning, he can feel a tingle of anger that he quickly pushes away. “All Soviet agents are fully trained in espionage. That includes being undercover whenever it’s needed.” 

“That’s something I’d like to see.” Napoleon leans back, obviously amused, and takes out a pack of cigarette. Lighting it up, he seems to be completing his look with the effect of the smoke rising from his fingertips, bringing focus to his hands and mouth. It’s fairly obscene, without any real effort on his part. 

“No.”

“Come on. I’ll make it worth your while.” 

There is something suggestive in the challenge. Illya hardly knows how to read it, but it makes him flush again with shame, though from what he doesn’t know. After a beat, he reaches up and ruffles his neatly kept hair, then pulls off his jacket and, after another pause, his turtleneck. With only the threadbare t-shirt underneath, he feels completely ridiculous, but it is the best he can do in a pinch. Without further ceremony, he blinks a few times and steps over towards the bar. 

He can feel Napoleon staring at the back of his head. He picks his target because she is easily visible from their table by the wall. She is a pretty, short brunette with a bright dress and no heels. 

“Evening.” His English accent was far more believable than his American. 

The woman looks up and blushes straight to the roots of her hair. He’s kept his expression open, as he’s been taught, and friendly. It seems to work, as she gives him a smile and says. “Hello,” back.

“Can I buy you a drink? If you’re finished with yours of course.”

She takes a deliberate sip through the dainty straw she’s been given, and puts it down on the counter. “I would love one. Vodka martini, please.”

He asks the bartender, and leans on the bar. His sleeves are shorter than he ever wears normally, so it’s odd to see her eyes catch on his shoulder and roam down his arm like he’s a piece of meat. Even more so because he can sense Solo watching him from the other side of the room still. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” 

Taking a moment to decide between confident and shy, he decides not to exert himself too much with either. He simply shrugs and smiles deliberately, as if sheepish. “Obvious?”

“Only the accent. How are you enjoying the city?” 

“It’s…” he searches for something he can sound believable saying, “different.” 

The woman’s mouth opens as if to speak, then snaps shut abruptly. Her face turns flushed again. “Oh. Um. My boyfriend is coming over.” 

He actually has to try to look embarrassed himself, instead of distinctly relieved. It was becoming obvious that he’d not thought his plan through, and had been ready to come up with an excuse to get rid of her. This allows him to bow off and go back to his table without question. 

His turtleneck is folded on his stool, and Napoleon is still looking at him. His expression is something terrifying. It has promises Illya cannot quite interpret into words. 

All Napoleon says is “I stand corrected”, and he lets Illya flee without making any fuss.

 

He is not sure how he feels, when he meets Napoleon at the bookstore nears his apartment. He’s not foolish enough to think the meeting is a coincidence, but isn’t sure he wants to know what Napoleon will have to say. 

“Jazz clubs, used book stores - you’re a treasure trove of secrets, aren’t you Peril?” 

“There are some things America does well,” Illya admits. He’s already got a few books tucked under his arm, and is flipping through another on wartime poetry. 

Napoleon leans against a column and looks through the stacks with a wide, uninterested gaze. He plucks out a book seemingly at random, and begins paging through it. “I can’t say I understand the appeal.”

Illya glances at the book Solo had chosen. “Didn’t you steal art?” 

“But not art books. The real things are far more interesting.” 

“Well not everyone gets an opportunity to see the real ones up close and in person.”

Shrugging, Napoleon admits, “You make a fair point. And who knows, perhaps it’ll inspire someone to go into an actual museum for once.”

Illya shrugs too. The conversation is as light as ever, as though the night before in the club had never happened. He isn’t even sure what he’s afraid of, but he’s almost scared stiff at the idea Napoleon is going to bring it up. 

“I always preferred the statues myself, though they were harder to steal. You can’t exactly walk out of a museum with one stashed under your jacket.”

“I do not doubt you tried.” Illya shuts his own book, and puts it with others he’s decided to buy. “I’m finished here.” 

“I think I’ll take this one myself. I haven’t seen some of these in years.” 

And he does, following Illya to the counter and maneuvering so that he ends up paying for everything. Illya almost starts an argument over it, but is ushered out before he gets himself kicked out of his favorite store in the city. 

“You shouldn’t do that. I have money of my own.”

“I was trying to spare you the capitalist indulgence. You should be thanking me really.” 

Huffing to himself, Illya purposefully walks in the opposite direction as if Napoleon doesn’t already know where he’s been living. The American is nice enough not to laugh too loud as he walks away. 

 

He has no idea how he’s gotten into this situation.

Perhaps it had to do with the fact that his mission was hardly a mission - it left him with most afternoons and evenings free. It was obvious that none of his targets would be willing to become spies for the soviets. He just had to ride out his punishment like a good agent. 

Also, the flat they’d given him was bare and boring. Napoleon’s was, at least, interesting. 

“Do you always spend so much time on your hair?” Illya asks. Napoleon was getting ready for a function he would be infiltrating that evening for the CIA. Or perhaps it was something he did for fun in his free time - he didn’t say 

“Of course. Could you take out a suit for me. Something decent.”

Illya goes into Napoleon’s frankly ridiculous closet. Before America, he would never have thought one person could own so much. Napoleon, however, always exceeded any boundaries of common sense. At least most of his suits were tolerable, and properly fitted. It would be a crime for Solo to go out in anything less, though he is tempted to pull out something awful just to enjoy the look he’d get for it. 

He lays it out on the bed and goes over to one of Napoleon’s dozen mini bars, pouring himself some of the swill the Americans consider good vodka. Napoleon comes out as he takes a seat. 

“Your sartorial choices never cease to amaze, coming from a man who choses to wear nothing but turtleneck sweaters.” He takes off his robe and begins to get dressed. 

Unable to help himself, Illya watches intently as Napoleon slips on his trousers and shirt. It’s obvious that fine clothes were made to be worn by men like him. Then, realizing he’d paused for too long, he responds, “They are practical. I do not like to get nice clothes messy.”

“Well I must not be as messy as you then.” Napoleon gives his words that flirtatious tone that Illya has begun to recognize as a way of getting under people’s skin, one way or another. 

Illya would have gotten angry a few weeks ago, to be spoken like that. But now, he watches Napoleon put on his suit jacket and only thinks of the process in reverse. Men like Napoleon Solo were made to be dressed and undressed. As soon as he thinks it, he is uncomfortable with the thought, and how idiotic it makes him feel.

Napoleon has taken his cufflinks off his dresser and, adjusting them, checks his watch at the same time. “I’m going to be late if I don’t get going. I’ll see you around, Peril.”

“Try not to get shot, Cowboy. It would ruin a perfectly good suit.”

Napoleon shoots him an impish grin, and leaves Illya in the apartment. Safely alone, Illya groans in frustration with himself, and pours himself another vile drink before heading out. 

 

He is allowed to go back to Moscow earlier than he’d expected. For a moment, he considers telling Solo that he’s going, but reminds himself that he’s being ridiculous. They were rivals, not friends. Rivals who hadn’t had a reason to shoot each other yet. Eventually, he reminded himself, it was likely they’d be told to kill each other. He shouldn’t get attached. 

Oleg and his other handlers suspect nothing. They bring him into headquarters - a building he has not seen in years, and take him in for a formal debriefing. Halfway through the slide presentation, he almost groans at the absurdity of it all. 

Napoleon Solo. Always turning up where he shouldn’t be. 

 

He regrets leaving the doorman in New York a forwarding address in Porto: a hint that he was safe, in case someone came asking where he’d gone. It’s all he thinks about as he watches Napoleon make his way through the security check at the city’s wall. 

He’s paid off the inspector, but he knows Solo too well to expect it to go unnoticed. So he moves into view just slightly, and almost grins with satisfaction when Solo falls for it, focusing on him instead of on his case. 

It’s only now to wait, until Napoleon meets up with the chop shop girl and tries to get her out of the city. He is patient enough to wait for that. Then he will shoot Solo before they can escape. It’s simple. 

Maybe his superiors knew about the two of them, after all. And this was punishment for having feelings for the enemy. Because feelings he certainly had - dread, more than anything else. Admiration, awe, respect, and dread. 

He waits by the chop shop, certain of his mission’s outcome. It has been weeks since he felt those waves of anger he’d been cursed with as a child, and he misses them. Without one, he will not be able to take out Solo as necessary. And he will die. 

Berlin, he decides, it a lousy place to die. 

 

What he does not know, of course, is that when he rips off the trunk of Gaby Teller’s car, chasing them as they try to get away, Napoleon will put down his gun. 

Teller demands of him, “why don’t you shoot him?”

Napoleon just puts the gun down and watches Illya run after them as they speed away. 

 

They stare at each other, shocked into silence. The bathroom is a strange place to meet face to face like this. 

“This is your new partner,” Oleg tells him. He is holding back the sneering tone of voice he usually uses when discussing Americans. 

Napoleon comes to his senses sooner. Illya is still staring when Napoleon gives him a sharp grin - the kind he uses when everyone else isn’t in on the joke. It’s that familiar grin that snaps Illya to reality. 

He holds out his hand, as Oleg wants. And he says, “Cowboy.”

Napoleon returns the handshake with exaggerated enthusiasm. “It’s nice to be on the same side for once.”

“Do you know each other?” Napoleon’s CIA handler demands. He sounds exactly like the sort of man Illya had pictured being an American agent, and nothing at all like Napoleon. Illya truly has been spoiled because the man’s nasty tone raises his hackles more than anything has managed in months. 

Illya simply says, “We’ve met.” 

Their superiors walk ahead of them, leading them outside to some kind of cafe, to whisper angrily at one another. The two agents stay back and walk together more slowly. 

 

The mission explained, though with more passive aggression than normal, the two are left to their own devices. There is little chance that they aren’t being listened to by one or more of their agencies. But Illya doesn’t particularly care. 

“I never thought we’d be on the same side,” Napoleon says. His tone is more serious than Illya would have expected, but he understands. They should have killed each other already. 

“Everyone hates fascists.” 

“Very true.” Napoleon takes a sip of the drink he’d been given, and grimaces at the taste. “What do you think: are you ready to save the world?”

“I’m better qualified than you are, at least.”

They don’t say anymore, because they know that everything they don’t say only upsets their handlers more. Illya admits to himself that this moment, sitting by Napoleon and revelling in his superiors anger, is immensely satisfying.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya meets his two new partners in a clothing store, not sure how he should be playing this. He is aware that he is thinking like Napoleon, and not his usual way, but they are in this together this time. He just doesn’t know where the girl will fit in. But then he arrives and sees how she has been dressed, it’s obvious that Napoleon wants to have some fun. So he goes with that. 

“She is not going to be wearing this,” he says at once. It’s hard to not roll his eyes at Solo’s childish attempt to get a rise out of him. “She looks like grandmother.” 

“Excuse me?” she says, angrily. He had almost forgotten she could speak. 

Napoleon takes advantage of his momentary embarrassment, as expected. “Ms. Teller, this is my new partner Illya Kuryakin. I told you he was cranky.”

“You cannot tell her lies about me.” He points at Napoleon, and tells her, “He always lies.”

He leaves them to go over to the other clothing racks and find her something decent to wear. Not all of the clothing is as ridiculous as what Solo had chosen. He is also close enough to hear them talking behind him. 

“So you really do know each other?”

“We’ve met a few times.”

“Russia and America are working together?” she asks, skepticism heavy in her tone. It reminds Illya again how improbable their situation is just as Napoleon answers: 

“No, this is the first time for that.”

“I didn’t think rival spies could be friends.” Illya pushes a hanger too quickly, and it almost falls off the rack. 

“I wouldn’t call us friends.” 

Illya does slam down the last few hangers, getting both of their attention. Napoleon gives him a questioning look, which he ignores. 

“This is what Russian man would buy for his wife. Girl coming from behind wall would want something bright and stylish. Yes?”

Ms. Teller is clearly interested in her new choices, coming over to look. Illya shoots Napoleon a smug grin. 

Far from annoyed, Napoleon looks distinctly pleased. It’s very likely this was his plan all along: to set himself up as bad guy to smooth the way for Illya and Ms. Teller’s fake relationship. “Very well done Peril. Will you be doing me next?”

“Of course.” 

Napoleon blinks. “What? You’re not serious.”

Illya outright grins. 

 

“Why are all of my suits blue?” 

“They match your eyes. Black looks like undertaker.”

He and Gaby had already finished unpacking, and went up to check if Solo was finished before they went to explore the city. He, of course, was not. 

“You two are completely ridiculous,” Gaby complains, waving her new pair of sunglasses in one hand. 

“Solo is ridiculous. It is not my fault.”

“It’s my fault,” Napoleon agrees, before giving Gaby a dramatic wink that makes her laugh at them both. Illya feigns annoyance and hurries Gaby away before Napoleon starts trying to charm her into his bed. He pointedly doesn’t try to figure out which one he’s feeling protective over.

 

Napoleon looks absolutely ridiculous on a vespa. Illya has never seen anything more absurd than an attractive, well-dressed man, on a vespa. 

“You haven’t managed to shake off those tails we talked about.” 

Gaby looks around for a moment as if she’ll be able to spot them outright. It is rather stupid, but Illya knows he is still smarting from the comments about the Spanish steps, and tries to hold in his anger. Napoleon’s interference isn’t helping.

“They will be waiting for us. I can handle it.”

“You’re not supposed to a big strong KGB man. So remember, take it like a pussy.” Napoleon quips. 

Illya breathes in and out again. Solo is often annoying, but he seems to be trying particularly hard to make his partner snap. He grits out quietly,“I am trying very hard not to snap your neck Solo. Please leave.” 

Stepping forward, Gaby takes his arm as if to restrain him, but Illya doesn’t need any help yet. His fingers are twitching and his head is beginning to fuzz, but instead of pushing it, Napoleon looks at him for a moment like he’s reading his mind. Whatever he finds out, he nods as if the matter is settled. 

“I’ll see you back at the hotel. Enjoy your night off.” 

He actually leaves without any parting comment. Gaby look concerned but he is just thankful he didn’t hit the man by accident. 

 

Illya likes chess, and doesn't like popular music. That is his excuse.

The wrestling is totally accidental. One moment they are talking and the next, she's propelled herself at him. He's terrified that if he even touches her, he'll hurt her somehow. Thankfully he is not angry, only bemused and concerned, grappling with her drunk, writhing body until he has her pressed against the floor. 

They stare at each other. Illya actually thinks she's going to apologize, and then realizes she's falling asleep. 

He gives her a light slap to the cheek to get her attention. "Chop shop girl. Gaby."

"Do you think Solo heard us? He probably thinks we're fu-fucking," she says with a laugh, slurring her words a little. 

"He thinks we are fighting." He is certain that Napoleon knows better. "You cannot try to upset me again. I don't want to hurt you. Gaby!"

She's fallen asleep. He rolls off of her and resigns himself to putting her to bed 

 

 

Napoleon knocks on his door in his bathrobe. Illya feels completely unprepared for this. He had been very happy never considering that at some point, Napoleon Solo must be undressed. This is, perhaps, some form of revenge for the noise last night. 

“I’m rather impressed.” He holds up his handful of trackers. “You went through a lot of trouble.” With each word, he tosses one of them back.

His smugness is not to be tolerated, no matter the level of undress. Illya pops back into the room and comes out with his own handful of bugs, which he drops into Napoleon’s waiting hands. “I am not impressed. American made - very low quality.” 

“I’ll tell them when I see them next: does not meet with Russian standards.”

Illya snorts a laugh, but sobers suddenly when Napoleon’s robe slips down some on his shoulders. Flashes of conversation come back to him, mixed with images of skin. He feels flustered, and speaks without thinking. “The woman last night was not up to your standards either? You sent her away.” 

If he is surprised that Illya knows, Napoleon doesn’t react to it. He simply shrugs. “She wasn’t my type.” 

“I thought everyone was your type.”

He affects a playful, hurt tone.“Kuryakin, it’s like you barely know me. I have very exacting standards.” 

Somehow, that thought it worse than thinking Napoleon had no standards at all. “Goodbye Solo”

“Goodbye Peril. Oh, and lose the bowtie.”

Napoleon waltzes away down the hall to the elevator, preening for getting the last word. Scowling, Illya takes off the bowtie and closes the door.

 

"It sounds like you all had fun in there." 

Illya closes the bathroom door and adjusts his camera straps. Napoleon shouldn't even acknowledge him here, but he knows this man: he has no common sense. 

"I hope you left them intact."

"They have soft bones." It is as close as Illya is willing to get to admitting he has made a miscalculation. If he does not leave soon, there will be problems. 

"Your temper will be the death of us all," Napoleon scolds. He sounds almost half serious. "I will help this time, but don't make a habit of this." 

Illya nods stiffly, and hurries away. Napoleon disappears into the bathroom to do something - knowing him, he'll convince the men to lick their wounds in private. Or he'll get shot somehow. 

Illya grabs Gaby before they get caught in the fallout. 

 

She is not amused by their antics. She looks amused, but insists that she's very angry with both of them. 

Illya commandeers the bathroom to develop his photographs and wait for Solo to return. The radiation he's detected prove that development is far ahead of schedule. Someone will have to go investigate and Illya is keen to volunteer: he has always preferred straight action to playing pretend. 

Napoleon takes his time coming back, and greets Gaby first. 

"Your fiance has a short temper. You're supposed to be keeping watch of him," he scolds. 

Illya pops his head out of the bathroom to defend himself. "I do not need a keeper."

"Actually, you do. But Ms. Teller was too busy flirting with her Nazi friend to pay any attention."

"I like him," Gaby declares defensively.

"What does that say about you?" Napoleon says.

"That I prefer men who pay attention to me, instead of flirting with other ... people." 

Although she had clearly not meant to say it, Gaby does not look upset to have brought it up. Illya, on the other hand, is horrified to hear it. He ducks back into the bathroom with a distinct slam before he can hear Napoleon’s reaction and comes out with the photographs he's developed, still dripping.

"See." He thrusts it at Napoleon and retreats back towards the door. Both his partners peer at it. 

"These are the photographs you've been taking?" Gaby asks. "They're awful."

"It can detect radioactivity. These," Napoleon traces the patterns, "prove your Nazi has been handling radioactive materials. They must be at the assembly stage." 

"We should investigate," Illya says. 

Gaby sits back on the couch. "You two can run off and have some fun by yourself. I’ll stay here."

"Suit yourself. I'll just get dressed." Napoleon let's himself out, leaving Gaby and Illya alone together. 

"I'm sorry I let my uncle say those things about you," Gaby tells him with sincerity once he’s gone. She is always more genuine than he expects. It has been too long since he has spent time with people outside of the spy game.

"It is nothing. Forget it happened."

He leaves to get dressed before he's forced to talk about it anymore.

 

They work well together. Or, well for a certain definition of the word. Setting off the alarm and having to flee for their lives was not the best way to end the day. 

As he turns the boat away to avoid hitting the last closed door, he can almost hear the sarcastic remark Napoleon is holding in. It is in turning around to snap an apology - and remind Napoleon who got them into this mess in the first place - that he notices Napoleon fall off the boat. 

It’s instinct to dive in after him. He can hear the boat careening ahead without him as he submerges, feeling a hand grab desperately at his arm. The other hand, he feels when he breaks to the surface and it slaps over his mouth before he can make a sound, giving away their position. 

He trusts that hand when it tugs him downward again. Follows it through the complete darkness. 

The truck, when Napoleon turns on the radio, plays an Italian love ballad. Illya has to put his head in his hands, horrified of everything his life has become. Napoleon, picnic basket in hand as he drives, munches on some poor man’s sandwich and shares the drinks. 

 

"I hate you."

"Really?" Napoleon looks perfectly comfortable bracketed between Illya's arms. He even pushes against the wall to extend his neck, like the picture of sin.

"I do. I hate working with you."

They had run into the hotel together, avoiding Vinciguerra by going up the stairs. They’d both made it to Napoleon’s room safely before Illya realized that he cannot get back to his room. Trapped, he had gotten angry. And in anger, more trapping occurred. 

"That's a pity. I think we work well together." Napoleon has slowed his blinking to emphasize the batting of his eyelashes. They're too dark and delicate for a man like him. 

Moving his hand lower, Illya let's his hand rest against that elongated neck offered up for him. "You do whatever you want. You're selfish, self-obsessed-"

He gives up on synonyms. He should be thinking of what is coming, of Vinciguerra coming up the elevator. He knows exactly what Napoleon is planning and hates it, but cannot help going along with it. So many of Napoleon's plans coming together at once. 

The door opens as he presses their lips together. 

He hadn't expected her to have a key. He should pull away - Napoleon is pulling away, ready to put on an act. That is what makes him press his whole body against his partner just so that he can hear Napoleon gasp, and bite lightly at his lips that swell and turn red. He refuses to let up the kiss until Vinciguerra coughs for their attention. 

"Yes?" He hardly recognizes his own voice. It sounds smug and rough. 

"I'm sorry to have interrupted-...". She looks them over obviously, pausing at their bare chests and half unbuttoned trousers. The distinctive black covert wear tossed by the bed is not noticed. 

"How did you get a key?" Illya asks. Napoleon is still quiet in his arms; he doesn't know how long that will last. Casting a glance at him again, Illya is immediately distracted by the mess he makes. Half thinking of the hungry way Victoria has been looking at Napoleon, and half not thinking at all, he leans in again to kiss Napoleon's hair, his temple, his-

"I was clearly very mistaken. I hope your fiance doesn't find out about this for your sake."

She let's herself out, probably to go tell Gaby herself. The door slams behind her with dramatic emphasis.

Napoleon tries to push Illya to move. "That went well."

Illya raises an eyebrow and does not move. 

"Peril?"

"You do not get to play at flirting with me, Solo."

Furrowing his brow, Napoleon gives him an unreadable look. Illya is not frightened, because he knows Napoleon. Knows the man is nothing like he pretends.

When Napoleon finally reaches his own hand up to cup Illya's cheek, moving forward to kiss him fiercely, Illya grins smugly and kisses back. 

 

"I thought I was the horrible fiance?"

"If you'd only loved him like you were supposed to, he never would have strayed." How Napoleon says such things out loud, and with a straight face, is beyond Illya's comprehension. "If she thinks Illya is a homosexual, then she’ll abandon any suspicions of his being a KGB agent. It's a good plan."

"Solo!" Illya reprimands. He does not like hearing the word tossed around as if it means nothing, especially after last night.

Napoleon rolls his eyes. "If she's going to report us, it's a little late to stop her."

He has a point, not that it matters. The word itself makes his hand twitch, and his heart rate increase. Is that what they are? Napoleon looks calm as always - it is impossible to tell. If he admits to anything out loud, it's tantamount to admitting that he's willing to die for it. He's not ready for that. 

Perhaps sensing his discomfort, Gaby chimes in."My uncle called and invited me to a party at the Vinciguerra without my husband."

Napoleon frowns. "And I have a meeting with Victoria."

"You're not still going," Illya says. "It's probably a trap." 

"If we were convincing, then nothing has changed. She doesn't suspect a thing."

It is not a good plan, but Napoleon can take care of himself. Gaby will need someone as backup. He knows where he needs to be.

Napoleon puts on the listening device on Gaby, claiming "past experience". She playfully slaps his hands away whenever he tries to move his hands up, and Illya rolls his eyes as he watches. When Napoleon leaves, Illya says to him, "Don't get shot."

Napoleon waves. It's as dorky and ridiculous as it was the last time in New York. Illya is doomed. 

 

"I should have been more specific. When I said 'don't get shot', I should have added 'or get yourself electrocuted'. But it seemed oddly specific."

Napoleon staggers off of the chair to make room for Rudy. When he thinks Illya is looking away, he shakes his head and trembles. So Illya keeps pretending to look away. 

"How did you find me?"

"Tracker in your shoe." Illya presses the pedal with his foot and frowns when nothing happens. "It's broken."

"There's a glitch," Napoleon says. His voice is oddly distant, and he's looking at his shoe. "You're very thorough."

He's inching slowly away from the chair, like he's nervous just being near it, so Illya takes him outside, ignoring Rudy's noisy pleas. 

"How are you?" He asks. He's never had to ask the question before, never had someone he cared to ask, but his hands are running over Napoleon's arms, looking for wounds underneath his clothes. It's strange to be worried about someone. 

"There's a marching band in my skull, but I've had worse hangovers. What do we do with the evil mastermind in there?"

Illya ignores his lies because he agrees with what Napoleon hasn't said: there is time for injuries later. "We should turn him in."

"We know that both our governments would see him as more useful alive than dead."

It is a painful truth. "We might have no choice in the matter. Gaby is working with the Vinciguerras."

Napoleon sighs loudly. "That's disappointing."

Illya frowns but cannot disagree. He also notices a strange smell. Together, they turn and see Rudy burning to death. 

"I liked that suit," Illya says, for a lack of anything better. Napoleon shrugs and they turn away.

 

There is betrayal and redemption - but not for each other. Gaby and her secret band of agents are the key to their eventual success. Illya may throw a motorcycle - he doesn’t remember entirely, but one has been thrown and Napoleon is hardly the type. They stand in the dripping rain that reminds Illya of his weeks in New York, staring at each other. He does not know that the tape survived, or that Napoleon has it. 

And he never does. Napoleon never mentions to duplicate to his superiors. He calls Illya and Gaby up to his room for celebratory drinks before they drift apart again, and burns the tape in his ashtray. He even washes it away in the sink for safe keeping. 

 

“My superiors want me to kill you,” Napoleon mentions casually, pouring them both drinks. He did not pretend to be surprised when Gaby chose to go to her room and not join them. 

“Really? Mine don’t seem to see you as a threat.”

“That’s a pity. I think Sanders was rather hoping you’d finish me off and save him the work.”

Illya takes the drink from his hands, and frowns into it. “You are not very popular.” 

“I am where it counts.”

“You should ask Waverly to take you to England.” 

Napoleon laughs. “I didn’t realize the CIA were more of a threat than your KGB. Aren’t you worried about yourself?”

“I am what they want me to be. You don’t try to make the CIA happy.”

Although they don’t discuss it, they both walk out onto the balcony. It is a sunny day in Rome, and their rooms have a fantastic view. But as Napoleon stands at the edge, looking off, Illya knows it is this that he will always remember when he thinks of Rome. He is not a coward; he steps forward right next to his partner - soon to be enemy again. 

“Can I?’ Napoleon asks. He does not look as he speaks, eyes still trained on Rome’s horizon.

“What?” 

Napoleon grabs Illya’s hand, but still does not look. “Can I please-”

Illya pulls gently so they are facing each other again. Napoleon looks more open than he’s seen before, confused and searching for something. All Illya has to offer, he gives. He presses their lips together again, and again, and then harder for a second before pulling away. 

“I didn’t know you were the type to ask,” Illya jokes softly. He has never felt so soft before. 

Napoleon doesn’t smile, but the side of his mouth twitches. “I wanted something nice to remember before I go again. Until next time.”

“It was terrible working for you Cowboy.” 

There are steps on the far end of the courtyard and Waverly and Gaby appear. Waverly asks them to join his agency, to give their loyalty to him. They will both agree, he knows already. They cannot go back after all this. And if Illya never has to turn his gun on his friend, then that is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: this never establishes if Napoleon actually knows Illya's name before they're introduced. Didn't seem important.


End file.
